Memento
by Sasjah Miller
Summary: Aragorn remembers (homoerotic references)


Title: Memento  
  
Author: Sasjah Miller  
  
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Feedback: yes, please  
  
Archive: please ask, I'll probably say yes  
  
Disclaimer: not mine, Tolkien's  
  
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"The garrison sleeps in the citadel  
  
With the ghosts and the ancient stones  
  
High upon the parapet  
  
A Scottish piper stands alone  
  
And high on the wind  
  
The highland drums begin to roll  
  
And something from the past just comes  
  
And stares into my soul."  
  
Mark Knopfler - "What it is"   
  
-----------------------------------------------------  
  
This he remembered as he lay next to Arwen in their   
  
cold wide bed, while she dreamt unseeing of lands   
  
forever beyond her reach, in the misty grey hours   
  
before dawn.   
  
That the blood on Boromir's tunic stained the fabric   
  
into a shade of red he would never forget. That the   
  
shape of the warrior's body was utterly wrong, as he   
  
lay slumped ungracefully against the tree. That   
  
Boromir whispered hoarse, pain-filled words to him   
  
and that they drowned out the moaning of the dying   
  
Orcs that lay around them.   
  
That it did not rain just then, and that the winter   
  
sun filtered through the tree tops, casting a sudden   
  
ray of light on Boromir's face. That the blood of   
  
them both mingled on Aragorn's lips and that it   
  
tasted like his tears, like the sea that had salted   
  
his lips when he raided the Corsair ships so long ago,   
  
his sword singing and bloody.   
  
That Legolas came running, but did not draw near,   
  
giving them for the last time the silent space they   
  
had never been able to fill with anything other than   
  
high-strung words of honour and bloodlines.   
  
Meaningless. It had all been meaningless, even if   
  
Boromir's death had been the pivotal point of their   
  
journey, breaking up their Fellowship and ensuring   
  
that each of them were in the right place at the   
  
right time.   
  
"Out of something bad, something good may come."   
  
She was wise, his wife, perceptive and understanding.   
  
And he hated her for that. For she was not the one   
  
who had stood beside him in Moria, witnessing   
  
Gandalf's fall and screaming his name, taking the   
  
lead and rescuing them all from certain death. He   
  
hated her for not dying in a mossy glade in his   
  
shaking arms, the bloody broken sword between them,   
  
burning blood and cold steel separating them forever.   
  
As it had done during their short time together.   
  
For being here.   
  
***   
  
This the High King of Gondor remembered when he stood   
  
on the White Tower of Ecthelion in the evening,   
  
watching the sun set over blood-red mountains and the   
  
western sea, where maybe now he drifted forever in a   
  
little grey boat, alone, with nothing to accompany   
  
him but the weapons of his vanquished foes.   
  
That Boromir had accepted him as his king in the end,   
  
thrusting the fate of his people into a ranger's   
  
hands, entrusting him with the lives of the White   
  
City. That the Man had gripped his hair in agony,   
  
pulling him so close to him that Aragorn had screamed   
  
inside when he finally realized that this was what he   
  
had yearned for all along. But that it had been   
  
denied to him by duty and honour and stubbornness.   
  
That death was giving him the only thing he had never   
  
thought he wanted. That death was taking it away from   
  
him forever. That he could kiss him only after death   
  
had ensured that his kiss could never be returned.   
  
That Gimli had stood by, respectfully, eyes   
  
shimmering with tears, as they sung their lament,   
  
finally pushing the boat over the shimmering Rauros   
  
Falls. That he had wanted to stay there forever, but   
  
that he had he had felt the image of the White Tree   
  
under his fingers when he put on the dead warrior's   
  
bracers. That duty and pledges given had driven him   
  
on to fulfill his fate.   
  
***   
  
This he remembered whenever they would host a banquet   
  
in honour of distinguished guests, feasting on strong   
  
wine from the South and delicious dishes, laughter   
  
and merriment ringing through the high-ceilinged hall,   
  
soft music playing to enlighten the mood.   
  
That they would go hunting together like a pack of   
  
wolves and that for once they would not fight for   
  
dominance, but work together in perfect unison to   
  
bring down a deer or snare a rabbit so they all would   
  
eat that night. That their eyes would meet suddenly,   
  
as they lay under cover in the underbrush, dirty and   
  
tired, but delighting in the hunt and each other's   
  
company. That sometimes, suddenly, Boromir would   
  
smile at him then and that he could do nothing but   
  
return it.   
  
***   
  
This he remembered when Merry and Pippin finally came   
  
to stay with him in Minas Tirith and they spoke of   
  
times gone by, remembering fallen comrades and those   
  
who had long since left this earth.   
  
That he was the only one who truly remembered him.   
  
That even Pippin, who had liked Boromir well enough,   
  
had lost his memories of him, the warrior just a dim   
  
mirage from a long distant past. That the Hobbit had   
  
given his firstborn son the name of Boromir's brother.   
  
That he himself had not even dared to name his son so.   
  
That Boromir's name would disappear forever from the   
  
memories of mankind when he would forget him too.   
  
***   
  
This he remembered as he lay in Faramir's arms:   
  
secret stolen moments on his journeys to Ithilien to   
  
handle matters of state. This he remembered as his   
  
hands caressed the scars on his lover's body.   
  
That Boromir had died in his arms, riddled with   
  
arrows in a mossy sun-dappled green glade and that   
  
his healer's hands could not save the one he most   
  
wanted to save.   
  
The End 


End file.
